Pathway to Japanese Literature

June 6, 1947

I left the hospital with the excitement of a child going on a field trip. There was a patient around me who had developed peritonitis from appendicitis and still couldn't walk properly even a month after surgery, which meant I too had to live in the hospital for a month; in Tokyo, restaurants had shut down under what they called the "June 1st self-restraint measures," with covert operations emerging—reporters came asking if I didn't view this as poor governance given its consequences. In short, I'd been cast as the prime example of Nonpei's victims under these austerity measures—but during my month confined to hospital life, completely removed from Tokyo's actual conditions, I hadn't even peeked through backdoor establishments, much less observed this restrained market from the outside.

The patient’s chest had newly worsened, and fluid had begun accumulating in their abdomen; because the hospital had thrown in the towel—because it had become unmanageable—they said switching to an internist would be better; because right next to the hospital room was a factory where highest-pitched metal-cutting sounds swirled up scattering sparks, I couldn’t work either. This marked my first proper outing in a month; though I had gone out two or three times before—for fundraising, to fetch a renowned Tokyo doctor, or to arrange food for the patient—this was the first time I’d gone out purely for myself. I was hanging bamboo-wrapped rice balls like a child on a field trip. I was happy.

The Meguro-Kamata train had caused an accident and was operating on a single-track turnaround system. At Tama River Park Front, they disembarked passengers and made everyone transfer to the Shibuya-bound train. For they had compressed two trains’ worth of rush-hour chaos into one, making every seat a standing space where even those clinging to luggage racks kept getting shoved inward from behind; my legs floated mid-air, pushed upward with no room to drop back down; clinging stubbornly to my rice balls proved my undoing—having lifted them overhead, I lost the arm that guarded my heart, leaving the full force of all passengers to bear directly on it, yet I couldn’t lower my raised arm anymore. In my critical stupor—muttering about how pitiful it would be to have my heart crushed instead of the rice balls—I reached Shibuya. I couldn’t walk for a while; when pushed out, I leaned against an iron pillar on the platform and had to wait for my consciousness to return.

I arrived at Monami in Higashi-Nakano at 9:30; Tsukada 8-dan was present, but Kimura Meijin had yet to arrive, and even the Tōnichi reporters were nowhere to be seen. I lay down on the reception room sofa, had water brought to me, took Kyushin—a heart medicine—downed Metaboline and Hiropon; when I had finally regained some semblance of composure, Kuramatsu Takejiro came over and said: "Well—it’s been a while." When the Meijin match reached three to two with Kimura Meijin cornered, I had wanted to see the next game. I don’t understand shogi, but there must be a psychological struggle—the strong one, the undefeated Meijin of ten years cornered—where complex psychological interplay must be secretly clashing behind the match. I had wanted to see that. As an innate busybody, I found myself greatly drawn to this match fought over the Meijin title—the most gruesome of sports—though I felt awkward toward both gentlemen locked in mortal combat; however, having long resolved to offer my very existence as a plaything for others, I did not fear becoming a mere onlooker at this life-and-death struggle.

Because I had been preoccupied with the patient’s situation and forgotten about the seventh game, I was delighted when this match ended in sennichite (a draw by repetition), and promptly applied to the Mainichi Shimbun the next day to observe the following match. When I received permission, I was as happy as a child. ★ Someone as thoroughly bored as me couldn’t bear to watch things like baseball or sumo anymore—even if they were fighting for a pennant—it was all too tedious. Things like women exposing their navels or revues verging on nudity—I’d never once felt like watching them. Since the war ended, other than going once to see an American newsreel (atomic bomb), I hadn’t seen movies, plays, revues, baseball, or sumo. Because I didn’t want to see them.

When I think back now, those air raids were the most extravagant spectacles of all. For in that hellish sky I gazed up at, my very life had been staked. To gamble with life must be the greatest game of all. There was no scheme here—no thought of gaining anything by staking one’s existence. The work of literature is precisely such a preposterous endeavor—a realm born of possession, one might say. All arts follow this pattern: writing oneself to death, singing oneself to ruin, dancing into oblivion, talking until breath fails—they’re the domain of those who’ve stripped themselves bare to sit cross-legged atop their fates.

My art isn't some spectacle—I don't need fame or money, pure and sacred—such petty posturing isn't worth a damn. No matter how others see me—because my core remains utterly detached—I'll gladly become their plaything: let them pat my head or brand me some smut peddler—it makes no difference. A solo performance, dancing possessed until curtain call—this alone is the living principle for a true artist. Self-indulgent and self-serving—it's simply about doing what I want to do.

The shogi Meijin match was my plaything. What I particularly liked was that the undefeated Meijin of ten years was being cornered. Among them were those who pretended to know better, saying things like “Kimura Meijin isn’t exceptionally strong—he’s just riding high on momentum,” but even though I didn’t understand shogi myself, the fact remained that over those ten years he had hardly lost not only in Meijin matches but in any significant contest of note; such consistency could not be attributed to mere momentum. Unlike the endless debates in other arts about who between this or that person deserved to be called a master, shogi and Go had definitive matches, and the match records they produced were so overwhelmingly superior that Kimura Meijin was undoubtedly strong.

Indeed, because the stronger player was losing and being cornered, I was pleased. I had always liked Kimura Meijin. In other words, it was favoritism. For I believed that Kimura Meijin was a man akin to the very incarnation of fighting spirit—a "possessed" soul who would devote his entire being to victory, writhing and thrashing across the board in matches he’d martyr himself to.

The Meijin preceding Kimura Meijin was called Sekine Meijin. Though weak at shogi, this man was praised for his elegant play and what people called the dignified bearing befitting a Meijin. That such an absurd notion as a Meijin's dignity could exist despite weakness should be unthinkable. One becomes Meijin through strength alone—there exists no other path. In literature too, they regard works like Mr. Shusei's epitome as possessing an austere dignity. They lack any amusement whatsoever; there's nothing particularly moving about them in any aspect. Yet they proclaim that very subdued quality as divine skill, declaring that because it lacks amusement, it transcends vulgarity to achieve elegance and constitute great literature. They spout these dreamlike claims without ever questioning them—it's absurd.

However, since literature lacks definitive contests, whatever I said became an endless debate—but even in something like shogi, where outcomes are clear, phrases like “the Meijin’s dignified style” despite his weakness and expressions that didn’t even qualify as puns went unquestioned and accepted. The strength in shogi was determined by the "technique" for winning. In swordsmanship as well, the primary element was the technique for defeating one’s opponent; matters of style were irrelevant. Military strategy and swordsmanship were products of turbulent eras—inevitable techniques devised to win at all costs, for defeat meant losing one’s very life. Yet once peacetime arrived, they came to extol magic-trick acrobatics such as “victory without combat” as greater strategy.

In old sword matches, they were life-and-death contests where participants staked their lives. Therefore, in swordsmanship and warfare, winning without fighting was undeniably the most practical approach—not in some acrobatic sense, but because when one truly possessed the strength to ensure victory through combat, this clarity allowed victory without engagement; whether fighting or not, one prevailed, merely eliminating needless losses. However, in Japan—premised on this impossible notion that those without real ability could achieve victory without combat—military strategies and swordsmanship became toys for vulgar pretenders masquerading as truth; and once this came to be accepted as a national character-defining educational creed, it inevitably led to witnessing today’s great defeat and ruin.

Oda Nobunaga was a master of military strategy and Japan’s foremost authority. Takeda Shingen was the first to acquire Tanegashima-derived firearms, but upon observing that matchlocks required time to reload after each shot—during which interval the enemy would close in and cut him down—he deemed them ineffective as weapons. He thus created a shield to block the first shot, endure until the second, and close in to strike before reloading could occur. With this reasoning, he focused his efforts on inventing shields to counter firearms.

However, Nobunaga invented a method to eliminate reload time: he organized his gunners into three rows—the first row would fire, then the second, then the third—and by the time the third row finished firing, the first row had completed preparations for their second volley. However, if enemies who had been allowed to slip through charged in, the firearm troops would be powerless in close combat; therefore, moats were dug and bamboo fences erected before the firearm troops. Even if some enemies slipped through, they would be shot down while being delayed by these obstacles—thus, through this innovative tactic, he annihilated the Takeda clan.

To illustrate how absurd Japanese military strategies were—the Koshu-ryu, Kusunoki-ryu, all being Mutekatsu-ryu: tactics of winning without combat through sheer deception, devoid of real ability. Fundamentally, no matter how Shingen did this or Kusunoki did that—no matter how Nobunaga might have studied others’ methods—they were doomed to fail. The crux lay in Nobunaga’s mindset: one had to maintain substantive superiority—a matter of actual capability—and remain perpetually innovative. The Japanese people, having forgotten the grand endeavor of originality, exhausted themselves solely in refining technical mastery within given frameworks; thus, they wrote various secret teachings and expounded esoteric principles about it being art or technique or divine skill, only to be left behind by the passage of time.

Over sixty years after Nobunaga’s death, when the Shimabara Rebellion broke out, the rebel peasant army of Shimabara possessed arquebuses and had naturally adopted Nobunaga’s tactics to fight. In contrast, the shogunate forces—whether following Koshu-ryu or some other school—charged forward waving their swords, piling up corpses until the peasant army’s ammunition ran out, making it no contest at all. Moreover, still unaware of their own folly, they branded Matsudaira Izu—who waited for the enemy’s ammunition to run out—a coward, while hailing Itakura Igakami no Kami—who recklessly charged into bullets only to be annihilated along with his forces—as a hero. This was the military strategy of the Tokugawa period and the national character of Japan itself.

Miyamoto Musashi was a demon of competition. He employed every tactic to win—deliberately arriving late to provoke his opponent, outmaneuvering them in turn, and when Kishiryu threw his sword’s sheath, he shouted “Kishiryu has lost!” to enrage him. Not only was he meticulous in the principles of swordsmanship, but he also utilized everything at hand impromptu, devoted his entire spirit, and was a demon solely for victory. However, in his later years, Musashi wrote The Book of Five Rings—expounding not on swordsmanship but on the Way and enlightenment—and thus was defeated by the era of peace. Swordsmanship is not a means to attain enlightenment. It is a technique for winning through the sword; as a means to attain enlightenment, there are proper disciplines like Zen meditation and contemplation elsewhere.

I thought that Kimura Meijin was a man like Miyamoto Musashi in his prime. Some time ago, when Kimura Meijin commented on Futabayama, he remarked that in shogi, if you lose positional dominance in the opening phase, you’ll be pressured until the very end—and since controlling the opening position itself is the mark of a Meijin’s skill, what sense did it make for a yokozuna to rise at his opponent’s call simply because he held that title? I found this deeply impressive. The rumors circulating among the public spoke of Kimura Meijin’s ferocity—how he resembled a demon of competition. In another Meijin match against Kanda 8-dan, when Kanda arrived fifteen minutes late and they were about to sit down for the game, Kimura glared sharply at the recorder and said, “Deduct fifteen minutes from Kanda 8-dan’s allotted time.” Choleric Kanda 8-dan—his guts must have been boiling—truly a demon of competition; that was what competition meant. By nature, something like harmonious cheerfulness couldn’t possibly exist. Because for professional shogi players, shogi was not a game. It was work to which they had devoted their lives—because they were possessed by it.

While I was sprawled out in Monami’s reception room, Kuramatsu came in and said, “Look, you—this isn’t just about the Meijin title. It’s a matter of livelihood. Lose the title and his income changes. Once you’ve lived large, tightening your belt’s tough going. All those literary grandees are united in sympathizing with Kimura Meijin on that point.” I had heard about this from Mr. K of the Asahi Shimbun too. Kimura Meijin had apparently said, “I’m desperate—my wife and children’s livelihood depends on it,” but I’d been careless enough not to consider that far. I felt an odd pang of sorrow. Money truly is a pitiful thing. Not just veteran masters—even a greenhorn like myself shouldn’t feel such excessive sympathy for Kimura Meijin over that.

Since my heart was nearly bursting, now that the Meijin match had revealed itself to be such a petty affair, I found myself growing uneasy. However, upon reflection, this was precisely how a match should inherently be—a lifelong art and work where survival itself is staked—making such severity only natural. The very posture of Musashi's life-and-death contests from years past—staking one's very existence—embodies competition's true essence and art's primordial form.

“But you”

“But, you,” said Kuramatsu.

“What you’re aiming for—” “This’ll miss.” “The Meijin has grown too soft.” “The demon of competition belongs to yesterday.” “Now he’s just another politician—Taiseikai party boss with polished manners.”

★ It was exactly as Mr. Kuramatsu had said. The psychological struggle and fighting spirit that should have clashed on a human level were entirely absent from this match. It was a grievous contest, a completely silent battle.

Since it was about to begin, we passed through to the Japanese-style match room under Mr. Kuramatsu’s guidance, greeted Kimura Meijin and Tsukada 8-dan, and took our seats. The three actors currently performing a play modeled after Sakata 8-dan—Tatsumi Ryutaro, Shimada Shogo, and Sayo Fukuko—came to observe and took their seats.

“Well then, it’s about time we begin.”

said Kimura Meijin. The match began with the aimless atmosphere of first-grade elementary students starting a footrace. 10:02 AM.

Tsukada 8-dan, playing first, spent fourteen minutes considering his opening move. In the middle of this, he got up to go to the restroom.

Kimura Meijin turned to us and said, “Since you’re in Western clothes and this will take a while, please make yourselves comfortable.” Tsukada 8-dan advanced his pawn to 7-6 (14 minutes). Kimura Meijin responded with a pawn to 3-4 (3 minutes). Without a moment’s pause, Tsukada pushed his pawn to 5-6. Kimura deliberated for seven minutes before moving his pawn to 5-4, then immediately advanced a pawn to 2-5. Tsukada countered with a pawn to 5-5, Kimura pressed to 2-4, Tsukada captured the same pawn, took the same rook, and Kimura positioned his gold general at 3-2. I had occasionally watched official Go tournaments, but the phrase “without a moment’s pause” was rarely used there. The established patterns in Go were extremely variable and multifaceted, but in shogi, the established moves seemed absolute up to a certain point. However, even as they reached the endgame, there were moments when they exchanged four or five moves without a moment’s pause. In Go, even when making clear-cut exchanges, they would apparently deliberate for forty to fifty seconds. As the match reached its critical endgame phase where the Meijin title was about to change hands, there was not a moment’s pause—the pieces slid sideways and forward, pressed down by a single finger in swift succession. I felt a strange sensation. Because I was made to feel something profoundly fateful. It wasn’t the Meijin moving the pieces; the pieces were advancing under their own inescapable destiny. The Meijin’s power could do nothing to alter that destiny. And the Meijin was in the process of falling from his title... By then, I found it painful to look at his face. The Meijin could now barely manage to touch a piece with his finger; it was the pieces themselves that slid sideways and forward with smooth inevitability. There was nothing to be done—the Meijin’s face seemed to say as his entire body’s strength crumbled away. That must have been around one or two o’clock in the dead of night.

Tsukada 8-dan considered for six minutes before moving his rook to 3-4 and sweeping away the side pawn. At that moment—having bid farewell to Mr.Tatsumi, Mr.Shimada, Ms.Sayo*,* **and** **both** **shogi** **players**—he stood up. I took my eyes off the Meijin’s board during his turn looked around stood up and followed after the three visitors. After returning,

“Can’t figure it out, huh? I’m staying at the house of a doctor I’m very close with.”

“Who is it?” said Tsukada 8-dan. “Sayo-san.” After deliberating for ten minutes, Meijin moved his rook to 5-2. Kimura Meijin had requested an autograph board from Sayo Fukuko. He was saying that since his schoolgirl daughter was a Sayo fan and wanted it, she’d probably be delighted. Tsukada 8-dan requested an autograph board from the Mainichi reporter—and for me as well. Tsukada 8-dan deliberated for fifty-four minutes before moving his rook to 2-4. As he moved the piece, he smiled wryly, “I played terrible shogi.” “I was defeated in thirty-eight moves or something.”

he muttered. I didn’t understand the meaning of this.

The Meijin’s great deliberation began from that moment onward, and soon noon arrived, bringing a break. When both shogi players had first left, Kyosu 5-dan, the match recorder, turned to me, “This move is from the Yomiuri match or something where Tsukada 8-dan was defeated by the Meijin in thirty-eight moves.” he moved the pieces on the board and showed me. Following Tsukada 8-dan’s rook at 2-4, Pawn to 5-6; same pawn captures; bishop promotes at 8-8; same silver captures; bishop to 3-3; rook promotes at 2-1; bishop promotes at 8-8; bishop to 7-7; horse (promoted bishop) to 8-9; bishop promotes at 1-1; knight to 5-7; left gold to 5-8; rook to 5-6; gold advances to 4-8; horse to 7-9; gold immediately to 5-7; same horse captures; king to 4-9; gold to 5-8; same gold captures; same horse captures; king to 3-8; pawn to 2-6; pawn to 2-7; silver to 4-8—thirty-eight moves total.

Up until this time, it had been a truly leisurely affair.

From this point on, both shogi players would cease speaking entirely. The three theater troupe members’ visit here was utterly meaningless; they should have come to observe after the curtain fell, late at night.

★ Lunch ended, and at 12:50 PM, the match resumed. The Meijin had gotten up to spit phlegm and lumbered back to stare at the board when—as the recorder who had gone to the restroom returned—he suddenly looked up with eyes that seemed devoid of soul, stared in surprise, then let out a huge yawn—"Ah, ah, ah"—toward the garden. He sat back down and leaned over the board. At that moment, Tsukada 8-dan turned to the recorder and said, “Do they always perform so much on a play’s opening day?” he asked. When Tsukada questioned why they performed so extensively on opening days—not grasping the reason—the recorder struggled to respond as—

“If you go on opening day, it’s a perk.” “Usually about three hours.” “But I can get back in two and a half hours flat.”

he muttered. Indeed，opening days did take a long time. Because they took so long，people generally disliked attending opening-day performances，but Tsukada 8-dan might not have felt boredom. He wore an expression that said he’d never paid any mind even if others thought completely opposite to himself. And after that，he fell completely silent. From then until the match concluded late at night，he did not utter another word.

Doi 8-dan entered with a loud voice—limping while fastening his M-buttons—and declared “I’ve just watched a game of go that was quite interesting!”, then closed the sliding door to the adjacent room. In the adjacent room were Mainichi reporters. Even with the sliding door closed, he kept chattering at them in an absurdly loud shrill voice, making it all for nothing. Kuramatsu and Mitani were playing Go on the second floor after lunch. Both were acquaintances from the Literary Go Club with whom I played at matching ranks, but soon Mr. Murakashi Shofu arrived and—without showing himself to the shogi side—went upstairs to begin playing Go at my same rank too; then Kuramatsu crept over,

“Mr. Murakashi is here.” “Won’t you play Go?” Kimura Meijin’s four-hour-and-thirteen-minute great deliberation. Even the recorder had grown bored and left, leaving me utterly alone. Yet I was not bored. I couldn’t help wanting to see how this match would differ from the thirty-eight-move game—where the moves would diverge, who would make them, and what expressions the two would wear in that moment. There must be something. No matter how much boredom I had to stake, I wanted to see that something.

However, this four-hour-and-thirteen-minute great deliberation—apparently, its outcome had been obvious all along. Pawn to 5-6. Since it was already determined, they had read far ahead into subsequent moves; if intending a prolonged battle, they apparently didn’t consider it here. Kyosu 5-dan and Doi 8-dan had both explained it that way.

“It won’t change for a while yet.” “Bishop promotes at 1-1. Will things change here?” “Since there’s a knight present, you drop to 2-4.” “There’s that kind of move too, I suppose.” “There’s all sorts of tricky parts here.”

Doi 8-dan looked thoroughly pleased.

“He’s studied it over and over.” “You wouldn’t play the same losing shogi game without confidence.” “Where will it change? It’ll change soon.” “It’ll be interesting.”

Doi 8-dan was a rare sort of person. He had none of a professional player's prickliness, didn't shy away from people, and chatted openly with anyone. He was a good-natured old man. Outside the Kimura Meijin school, probably every high-ranking shogi player had secretly hoped for the Meijin's defeat. The invincible Meijin or Eleventh Dan in actual skill—legendary evaluations that were recklessly and blindly believed by the faceless masses of us amateurs—must have galled those professional shogi players who secretly prided themselves on their own abilities,

“The Meijin and high-rankers—their real strength ain’t different.” “It’s research.” “Research’s what wins.” Doi 8-dan declared,

“We old folks are no good, that’s.” “The young ones are really putting in the research, that’s.” Tsukada 8-dan’s deep research and the confidence with which he had taken on such an unprecedented losing game of thirty-eight moves during the critical Meijin match exuded an undeniably impressive air. The Mainichi Shimbun had live updates with commentary by Kato 8-dan, but this four-hour-and-thirteen-minute deliberation made sustained commentary impossible—they stretched it out for ninety minutes before collapsing into disarray as urgent telegrams demanding “Send us material!” flooded the reporters’ desk, though fulfilling them proved unfeasible. Even the recorder departed for a stroll; both shogi masters remained motionless and silent.

Even so, Kimura Meijin adjusted his posture every so often. He thrust his left hand forward, pressing down forcefully on the board while holding a cigarette in his right hand raised to head height like a maneki-neko figurine. This time he placed his left hand behind him, leaned heavily on it, and stared into empty space as he exhaled cigarette smoke. He raised both knees, pressed them down with both hands, clamped a cigarette in his mouth, and puffed rapidly. Then he sat upright again—back rigidly straight—placed his left hand inside his sleeve against his hip, tensed his elbow, and held a cigarette aloft in his right hand while glaring at the board.

He gazed at the garden, yawned, stretched his back, suddenly stood up unsteadily, and wandered off to gaze vacantly at the garden. Tsukada 8-dan hardly moved his body. He kept both hands resting on his knees and looked down at the board. Though not appearing particularly energetic, his eyes shone dully with fatigue, half-closed. “How long have I been thinking?” The Meijin asked. With weary movements, he clamped a cigarette between his lips and peered at the recorder through clouded eyes.

“Three hours and thirty-three minutes.” The Meijin stood to use the toilet, returned, wiped his face with a towel, and pressed a hand over his mouth. He drank tea and cradled the bowl in his lap. Raising his knees, he wrapped both arms around them to hold them in place, clamped a cigarette between his lips, and took quick puffs. Sitting upright again, he slipped his left hand into his sleeve and pressed it firmly against his hip, straightening his torso and arching his chest forward. “How long have I been thinking?” “252 minutes.” At that moment, rather than looking at the recorder’s face, he stared vacantly at the space above his head.

“Ah.” He made a tongue-clicking sound in his mouth, and then immediately moved a piece. 5-6 Pawn.

The four hours and thirteen minutes had come to an end. Tsukada 8-dan immediately responded with the same pawn. At that moment, Kimura Meijin— “Even if I think…”

He muttered something unintelligible, then immediately executed 8-8 Bishop Promotion, same-square Silver; 3-3 Bishop; 2-1 Rook Promotion; 8-8 Bishop Promotion—a rapid clatter of moves like someone frantically gathering drying laundry before a storm. The Meijin lifted his tea bowl and sipped. "How long have I been considering that move?" "253 minutes." "A total of 273 minutes." "Ugh." Tsukada 8-dan pressed his right palm against the tatami, left hand resting on his knee, and stared fixedly at the board for six minutes before snatching up a piece to place at 7-7 Bishop. After groaning and arching his back in a stretch, he resumed his original posture of intense scrutiny. His gaze remained locked indefinitely on the shogi arrangement. Still frowning as though contemplating his own turn, visibly troubled by doubts about his last move's efficacy, he abruptly averted his eyes and crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray with distracted motions. The low grunt accompanying his back stretch gave way to eyes flashing with fierce resolve when he briefly glanced upward.

He let out a long breath and stretched his back. Tsukada 8-dan’s posture wavered for the first time at that moment. Kimura Meijin had been sitting upright with chest thrust out, arms crossed, a cigarette clamped in his mouth as he stared fixedly at the board, but then uncrossed his arms, his hand extending softly to move his knight to 8-9. Without a moment’s delay—Bishop promoted to 1-1; Knight to 5-7. Having finished his move, Kimura Meijin looked at the garden. Then, clicking his tongue softly, he glanced around the room. Those eyes were swollen and baggy.

Tsukada 8-dan deliberated for ten minutes and moved his left gold to 5-8. Immediately came 5-6 Rook; 6-8 Knight; after three minutes of deliberation—4-9 Knight promoted; same-square King; 5-8 Rook promoted; same-square King; 6-2 King. In that familiar evening downpour's frantic flapping of drying fish—my long-held plan about where the critical move would change—the sequence had shifted, but I couldn't grasp it. I wasn't watching the pieces but studying the players' faces, trying to read their expressions—yet there was no drama, just that single unstoppable torrent of frantic flapping until everything was settled. After the 5-6 Rook, on the twenty-seventh move, the change had occurred at 6-8 Knight.

Since I didn’t understand shogi, I had no choice but to watch with the crude curiosity of a sideshow spectator, fixated on where the pivotal turn would come. According to Kato Hachidan’s commentary, the 6-8 Knight had been an established move up to that point—the natural play—and Tsukada 8-dan’s thirty-eighth move had apparently been disastrous. Unaware of this, I kept diving into it for amusement—rabbit eyes here, hawk eyes there—searching for where the shift would occur, only to make a fool of myself.

Tsukada 8-dan’s long deliberation began. Exactly thirty minutes had passed when Kimura Meijin said to the recorder, “Did you go to sumo?” “Huh?” “You went to sumo.” “No.”

At that point, the conversation broke off.

The Meijin raised his knees, wrapped his hands around them, and sat with his mouth open. This time, from the recorder, “Sensei, what about the sumo tickets?”

“Tickets?” “No, it’s not about tickets.”

After a moment, “I wouldn’t go even if there were tickets.” “Because wrestlers like Chiyoyama and the strong ones are resting.” He then sat up properly and was holding a cigarette, but suddenly began muttering to himself—

“If I lose, there’s nothing to be done.” The words couldn’t be made out clearly. Then he sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and held a cigarette in his mouth, but stood up to go to the restroom. He returned and, from the corridor, “Could you go get some Nurumayu for me?”

“Huh?” “Nu-ru-ma-yu.” “A little.” He said loudly. And then he went to the adjacent room. He had taken medicine. Then came the recess.

Exactly six o'clock.

Everyone stood up.

When Mr. Kuramatsu and I casually returned to the match room, there was a person lying alone in the corner of the room. Stretched out on his back with eyes closed and hands clasped over his forehead. It was Tsukada 8-dan.

“Not feeling well?” “I have medicine.” When Mr. Kuramatsu began to speak, Tsukada sat up,

“No, I don’t need any medicine.”

Staggering, muttering, he walked off to the cafeteria.

“What kind of medicine is it?” I asked.

“Well, it was your medicine.” “It’s pitiful, I tell you.” “I thought about making him take that.”

The medicine I spoke of was Hiropon. That morning, when I—after dragging myself to Monami and taking my medicine—lay sprawled on the reception room sofa, he came and said he had stayed up all night and couldn’t hold out today, so I made him take my Hiropon. He hadn’t known about this drug. Since its effects were immediate, he must have thought to make Tsukada 8-dan take it too.

"It’s pitiful," said Mr. Kuramatsu, but both players were utterly exhausted. However, in the shogi world, Hiropon seemed to be completely unknown. Their exhaustion was so pitiful to behold that this seemed precisely the situation where taking Hiropon would be most effective—I considered suggesting it to both of them, but Tsukada 8-dan had a frail constitution, and I feared that if he shortened his life by taking Hiropon solely because of my recommendation, I would bear an unbearable guilt—so I refrained.

When night fell, a newsreel crew had gathered and were waiting for the match's conclusion, but these people kept injecting Hiropon.

★

After dinner, night came, and the garden beyond the glass door became pitch black, leaving nothing visible. A tension as though the universe condensed into this single room stretched taut, filling every corner. Kimura Meijin sat upright in silent meditation, but when he took Metaborin tablets from his pocket, Tsukada 8-dan—who had been continuously deliberating since before dinner—played 5-3 Pawn (68 minutes). Kimura Meijin merely glanced at it, took Metaborin, and stood up to go to the restroom, but in the corridor he turned back, lit a cigarette from the brazier’s flame, and left. Tsukada 8-dan also stood up and left. The Meijin returned and glared at the board for about a minute,

7-2 King. He pressed down on the king piece with a single index finger and slid it smoothly sideways. He held both hands over the brazier but contorted his face and stared at the board. Tsukada 8-dan began to think.

“Please inform Osesuma.” After saying this to the match recorder, Kimura Meijin stood up. When I peeked into the reception room, he sat in the armchair at the back, holding a cigarette in his right hand, eyes closed in that beckoning-cat pose as he thought. When I peeked in again five minutes later, he was no longer holding a cigarette. His arms hung limply at his sides, his eyes were shut listlessly, and he lay stretched out. His face showed no sign of thinking at all. Immense fatigue. He looked like great anguish itself.

Ten minutes later, I peeked in again. Exactly the same posture; only, the mouth hung slackly open.

While listening to Kato 8-dan’s commentary in the cafeteria, Mr. Kuramatsu came in and tapped my shoulder, “Hey, this is awful. The Meijin is lying sprawled out in the reception room.” “Ah, I know.” “Can’t bear to watch this.” Tsukada 8-dan had deliberated for ninety-six minutes—5-5 Horse; this was apparently an unprecedented move. After Kimura Meijin had been sunk in thought for about ten minutes,

“Meijin, you have two hours and fifty minutes left.” Meijin faintly uttered, “Mm.” At that moment, it was nine forty. Both players looked as though drunk. Their faces were faintly flushed, eyes glazed, foreheads wrinkled with brows furrowed, skin appearing oily.

Tsukada 8-dan pressed his abdomen with his left hand as if from stomach pain, slightly bowed his head, furrowed his brows, and closed his eyes. The sound of dripping rain began to intensify sharply. Outside was misty rain.

Tsukada 8-dan stood up. His legs seemed to have gone numb. He stood up, staggered, steadied himself, dragged his feet, and slowly, laboriously walked away. At that moment, “Meijin, two and a half hours remain.”

The Meijin gave no response at all. The mouth was open. He held up the right hand with a cigarette. That hand and the open mouth trembled faintly.

Tsukada 8-dan did not return. The Meijin’s prolonged deliberation over the novel 5-5 Horse move must have been completely obvious. I wondered whether he was simply using up every last bit of his usual allotted time and sinking into deep deliberation. Thinking to check what Tsukada was doing, I went to the restroom too, but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the reception room or the cafeteria either. A hakama lay draped over the sofa. As I stood in the corridor, he appeared from the kitchen area while fastening his obi.

Then Mr. Kuramatsu came down from the second floor and said, “Mr. Muramatsu is waiting. Let’s have a match.”

Since I thought the Meijin was deep in prolonged deliberation—very well—I went up to the second floor. Gripping them, I took black.

Spectators: Mr. Kuramatsu, Doi 8-dan. Mr. Muramatsu was foremost in the literary world for his prolonged deliberation on kabuki titles. In this continental samadhi realm where even normally no one escaped being tormented by such drawn-out thinking—or so it was reputed—with my lingering anxiety about the match downstairs, yet again unfortunately it turned into nothing but ko fights; I unleashed a series of bad moves that put me at a severe disadvantage, and without even considering an easy surrender I kept placing pieces nonchalantly, whereupon Mr. Muramatsu sank into deep contemplation and—making even worse moves than I did—arbitrarily lost. I ended up winning by five points. I declined another game and rushed downstairs.

The Meijin’s response: 5-4 Pawn (89 minutes), same-square Horse (37 minutes), 6-4 Gold; 3-6 Horse (12 minutes), 5-7 Pawn (24 minutes), same-square King (21 minutes).

It had progressed this far. Total: 183 minutes. No amateur Go match takes this long. The fact that Mr. Muramatsu Otona had conceived this entirely on his own was terrifying.

In other words, I had missed this match's pivotal moment - the critical juncture where victory was determined. The Meijin's 5-4 Pawn response to the innovative 5-5 Horse move - this proved to be the fatal mistake. When the Meijin dropped his piece like crumbling earth moments earlier, he immediately muttered that the 5-4 Pawn hadn't worked - that he should have played 6-4 Gold instead.

When I returned to the match room，both players’ complexions had grown increasingly red，their entire demeanor completely altered．They were utterly exhausted．Their vigor and spirit completely spent，they looked limp and flaccid，as though their very core had vanished．Yet what filled the room to bursting was a murderous aura．Both players sat sloppily facing each other，knees splayed apart，radiating desperation like electric currents—yet to me，that seemed to stem not from their physical bodies nor their mental vigor，but solely from fate itself：an inescapable fate that had condensed and trapped itself within them．

The outcome had already been decided. This wasn’t a contest. The Meijin had ceased to be the Meijin—it was like a condemned prisoner walking toward the execution platform. Nevertheless, Kimura Meijin’s demeanor shifted. With the fearsome resolve of a cornered villain, he suddenly gathered strength in his posture, reached out to snatch the king piece, and slammed it down on 8-2 with a resonant clack. He immediately lit a cigarette, glared at Tsukada 8-dan, then rose and left. Tsukada 8-dan kept his left hand on his knee, his right thrust through his sleeve cuff to press against his left arm with a pocketed hand as he hunched over the board.

Kimura Meijin returned while wiping his hands, without glancing aside, immediately sat down, and gazed at the board. Sitting solemnly upright, his mouth set in a straight line, eyes brimming with a murderous glint as he glared at the board and waited—Tsukada 8-dan deliberated for five minutes then— 6-6 Lance Adopting a confrontational stance, he slammed the piece down with a sharp clack, immediately stood up, and left.

This time Kimura Meijin leaned heavily over the board. It wasn't just his face. All the way to the nape of his neck was crimson. He lit a cigarette and held it in his left hand; with that mannequin-like posture, he stared into space, mouth agape, thinking. The hand and mouth trembled faintly. 5-9 Silver (6 minutes) Kimura Meijin tapped the piece again with a sharp clack, looked up at the ceiling, and let out deep guttural groans—Ugh... ugh... ugh... Left hand still holding up a cigarette. Tsukada 8-dan thrust knees forward forcefully,

6-4 Lance (1 minute). Soundlessly pressing down with a finger, he thrust it out smoothly. Same-square Pawn. This too was soundless. The Meijin pursed his lips tightly. Tsukada 8-dan removed his glasses and wiped them. His face grew increasingly flushed; left hand resting on his knee, right hand tucked into his sleeve pressing down on his left arm; leaning forward, his body swaying faintly. Five minutes. 7-5 Knight drop. Placed it with a clack, picked it up again, and tapped it down with another clack.

Kimura Meijin gazed while shielding his eyes with that small hand of his—scratching his brow, glaring at the board—muttered something inaudible; then right after, muttered, “No good.” His face looked as though doused in vermilion. “No use,” he faintly muttered, tilting his head while moving the 7-2 Silver upward (four minutes); arching his chest, he inserted both arms through sleeve cuffs and pressed them against his waist to stiffen his elbows, solemnly glaring at the board—yet after a moment, he glanced around at the people’s faces, *tch*—clicked his tongue, muttered something… Only the final “…tana” was audible.

6-3 Gold (5 minutes) The Meijin muttered again; it couldn’t be heard. More than enough. Same-square Silver. Tsukada 8-dan pondered deeply. He squinted his eyes wearily. The Meijin grasped the area around his mouth with his right hand and tugged at it. Gradually moving downward, he pinched his chin. He pinched his ears and scratched them. He tugged at his eyebrows while glaring at the board. Just when it seemed he had finally settled his hands on his knees, he tried to drink tea—lifting the teacup, spilling it, letting out a small “Ah”—then looked at where he’d spilled. He lit a cigarette, put it in his mouth, hands on knees, puffing away. At this time—the 7th, 1:05 AM. The Meijin discarded his cigarette, let out a huge yawn, propped his left hand behind him, and slumped back exhaustedly.

Tsukada 8-dan also crossed his legs. He exhaled a puff of cigarette smoke with a soft pop. After deliberating for twenty-seven minutes, he moved the Horse to the same square.

The Meijin immediately dropped the 7-2 Gold. He muttered simultaneously—"No use"—only those words audible. Tsukada 8-dan moved 5-2 Pawn (1 minute). The Meijin crossed his arms, muttered "Sauka," and kept his mouth hanging open. Tsukada 8-dan took a towel and vigorously scrubbed under his nose, shot a glance at me, then stood up and went to the restroom. Then the Meijin leaned over the board, "I’ve really gone and done something terrible (shōbu?)" he muttered, but the words—"koto," "shōbu"—couldn’t be clearly heard. He removed his glasses, pressed a towel to his face, and held it against his eyes. He wiped his neck.

Tsukada 8-dan returned from the restroom, and from that moment onward, a resolute expression became clearly etched on his face. And as if surrendering to fate, he crossed his arms and contorted his body. Kimura Meijin yawned. He took the towel again, wiped his face and hands, let out an “Ah—”, then muttered something under his breath. The boy brought hot coffee, but took the ice-cold tea instead and drank it, groaned “Ugh—”, then picked up the cigarette box only to find it empty,

“Don’t you have any cigarettes?” Kuramatsu passed him a cigarette. “Meijin, thirty minutes remain.” Faintly, he nodded.

"Dōmo…" he muttered something; it couldn't be heard. He straightened up. Again, he muttered.

“Meijin, twenty minutes remain.” Faintly, “Mm.”

He muttered something. [It] couldn't be heard. Again he muttered something. [It] couldn't be heard.

He seemed to say “Kachiganeeka.” Tsukada 8-dan groaned repeatedly—ugh... ugh... He let out groans—ugh... ugh...—that sounded like stifled coughs. He maintained perfectly upright posture. Kimura Meijin, after twenty-eight minutes, moved 6-3 Gold; not to be outdone, he strained with abdominal effort—ugh... ugh... ugh... 6-1 to. “...Gaasukoni...neeeka...” The Meijin leaned over and muttered while thinking. Again, something—a single word. Again, something. Arms crossed.

3-5 Bishop. He tapped the piece twice. Then, immediately, 4-6 Pawn—this too he tapped twice. “Meijin, ten minutes remain.”

“Mm.”

And then, “Any number of minutes is fine.” He must have muttered that, probably. I was seated closest to the Meijin, yet even I could not make out any of his mutterings. He pressed his right hand to his face. He pressed it to his forehead and rubbed. It appeared that the Meijin had already collapsed—that the act of muttering was happening without his own awareness.

“Well… this way or that way?” He moved the Horse to 7-9. Then pressed his chin.

Tsukada 8-dan strained, leaned forward, and surveyed his own formation; then he scrutinized the enemy’s camp before clattering through the remaining moves in one unstoppable cascade.

3-2 Dragon, same square Silver; 8-3 Knight promoted, same square King; 8-4 Silver.

At the same moment, the Meijin's figure swayed unsteadily and tilted to the right. His body undulated with a boneless motion as if composed solely of cartilage, "That's it."

Swaying limply, he grabbed a piece and let it drop with a clatter. As if even a second of silence were agony, he immediately continued speaking,

“The 5-4 Pawn was bad. “I should have dropped the Gold here.” “Where?” “Here. 6-4.” “6-4.” The Meijin’s voice as he resigned with “That’s it” probably didn’t reach those seated slightly farther away. The creaking of a body collapsing limply—a faint sound, itself limp and formless. At that moment, 2:24. This should have been moved here, this was bad, moving like this, if it comes like this, then this—the Meijin chattered on and on. Where does this voice come from? It was a voice like starched rice paper. Hoarse, twitching, parched, gritty—not a sound emerging from beyond the throat. It must have been a voice hastily manufactured around the throat, one that had to keep chattering nonstop. Even as his voice continued without pause, at times it would abruptly take on the expression of someone weeping with unresolved despair. What should he do? His body naturally crumbled limply, caving in and withering; regardless, he seemed to be suppressing it.

Since it was a review of the moves they had made, Tsukada 8-dan had to respond to each piece of this chatter. At times his eyes flashed as he stared at the Meijin—"Well then, like this," "At that time like this"—he stared fixedly, yet not even the faintest shadow of victorious joy surfaced in his heart. When I later said over drinks with everyone, “Watching this match was heart-wrenching,” Tsukada, the new Meijin, lifted his head sharply and replied, “No—among Meijin matches, there’s never been one as unexciting as today’s.”

As shogi, this was likely correct. From past the midpoint onward, the match's outcome had become clear beyond reversal. By midnight's hour, fate's dice had already been cast—no room remained for human intervention—so when Kimura Meijin resigned his piece without excitement, there was no need for conscious victory realization in that moment. Yet for me, the shogi pieces' movements themselves held no significance. That was something I fundamentally couldn't comprehend through observation alone. A champion undefeated for ten years—once deemed near-absolute—had fallen from regal heights. Those immovable dice from the match's midpoint onward found the Meijin desperately righting himself while seized by a demon's nape grip—no longer a struggle against Tsukada 8-dan, but a fallen king's battle against fate's demon: a futile conflict he couldn't win, a spectacle too gruesome to endure. I found this more agonizing than witnessing a blood relative's final hours.

The newsreel crew that had been lying in wait all night began filming without a moment's delay. A chaotic uproar of everything being overturned ensued. The Meijin seemed unaware of such things; with a contorted, strained face and voice, he continued moving the pieces. Twenty minutes passed, and at 2:45, for the first time, a semblance of a smile—though artificial—managed to surface on his face.

I had had enough.

I tracked down Mr. Kuramatsu and,

“Let’s play a game.” “Ah, let’s do it.”

We went up to the second floor.

★ The newspaper company’s whiskey, Doi 8-dan’s prized sake he had brought—a twenty-percent-proof drink meant to be cut with one part water—by dawn, with some alcohol having circulated, both the old and new Meijin had flushed faces, and Kimura Meijin too had regained a bit of composure. I am indeed weaker than the Meijin.

“Even though I was weak, I ended up winning—so I just felt dazed and couldn’t summon any happiness,” said Tsukada, the new Meijin. When the stronger player gets cornered, the psychological burden grows immense and profound; thus it’s the stronger one who self-destructs—that tendency must have been at work in this Meijin match. Kimura Meijin could not be called weak. Yet to me, the Meijin’s defeat seemed inevitable.

The Meijin said. "It’s divine will," he said. He said again. "It’s the times," he said. “The current of the times was flowing toward the denial of all authority—he had felt that era,” he said.

“I am Shōō.” “Shōō—the one who created his own laws and was condemned to die by them; I created the rules and lost to them; with an allotted time of eight hours, I couldn’t play.” “Because I read through it thoroughly.” “I lost to time.” “I am Shōō, you see.” “Shōō.” “I’m not educated, you see.” “Teach me how to write it.” “What characters do you write for it?”

Kuramatsu Takejiro persisted bluntly. “The ‘shō’ of commerce.” “As for the ‘ō’... well, the ‘ō’ is a troublesome character—maybe the heart radical?” Would one write it as 商怏? He had created it himself and been undone by it himself—in other words, Monsieur Guillotin, I supposed.

However, I thought the Meijin's defeat stemmed solely from him becoming an adult and losing the gambler's fighting spirit that stakes everything on a match. This constituted a "losing disposition." While combativeness forms the womb of technical progress, for Kimura Meijin it wasn't so much that this had waned as that he'd matured into adulthood—a far graver matter. Kimura Meijin suffered three consecutive defeats against Masuda 8-dan. When Mr. Kuramatsu inquired about him forcing himself to compete in poor condition after an exhausting journey with no rest—"Why push yourself to fight in such bad shape?"—

“Well, I place myself in poor condition and my opponent in good condition—that’s the doctrine I fight by.” “I unconditionally accept whatever conditions the opponent desires and make my moves.” “I don’t set any terms from my side—I fulfill all their requests and compete under those conditions. I believe that’s how it must be done.”

In what was likely the sixth game of the Meijin match, having avoided sennichite from his side through overexertion, he was defeated. He sacrificed himself and lost. Such noble spirit and valor, the Meijin's magnanimity, his fair play. That is a lie. Matches are not such things. If sennichite is absolute, then one must make it sennichite; that is being faithful to the match, faithful to shogi, and thus faithful to my life, my way of living. For the Meijin, shogi should not be a mere pastime—it must be the path into which he has poured his very life and staked his entire existence. It is precisely because one always plays at the very brink of the match and makes absolute, irrevocable moves that it can become art. Literature is no different—if one manipulates hollow characters merely to tidy their surfaces or engages in opportunistic pandering to the times without genuine conviction, it cannot be art.

If sennichite should be absolute, then the Meijin who avoided it had nothing to do with fair play—he was neither faithful nor sincere in shogi, and thus naturally possessed a losing disposition.

In his prime when Kimura Meijin overflowed with vigor, he once evaluated Futabayama by stating: "In shogi, losing the opening means losing the match." "Since controlling the opening position constitutes the very technique required of a Meijin Yokozuna," he continued, "responding to the enemy's provocations makes no sense." The Meijin had already lost this strategic discipline himself, instead transforming into Futabayama's very folly.

Originally, the sumo Yokozuna stood as Japan's most quintessential bizarre specter—a single entity that retained rank despite defeat once elevated. This establishment of formal authority embodied the Japanese error. The current shogi Meijin match follows competition's true path: one champion alone stands challenged, who must fall when defeated. Authority must rest solely on ability. What we call a "stylistic Meijin" inhabits the Yokozuna's realm—maintaining position through presence rather than skill. Thus people—the Japanese—trust style over substance, esteeming those who bear its aura.

Japanese politics was like that; politicians were no different. Even literature followed suit. Politics should have primarily concerned policies—style ought to have been irrelevant—yet in Japan they treated it as an art of manipulating public sentiment: compromising with enemies, brokering deals, and consolidating agreements were considered political skills, while policies themselves, their implementation, and the convictions behind them were relegated to secondary status.

As shogi players devote themselves to shogi, politicians should devote themselves to their policies; yet by avoiding sennichite—sacrificing the sincerity of adhering to their path—and skillfully compromising with opponents to force a cramped settlement, then calling this skill, style, and politics—we call this the Japanese specter. Japanese military personnel did not understand war’s true nature; they failed to recognize that victory comes through weapons—that military power derives from armaments. Soldiers who drilled to barked orders of “About face! Forward march!” wasted most of their time on maneuvers, leaving scant hours for marksmanship practice, never even contemplating atomic bombs. From the war’s outset, they fixated not on victory but solely on where to cleverly negotiate peace.

All such wretched reverence that constitutes Japan’s ideological poverty must be defeated and perish along with this war’s defeat; otherwise, a new Japan cannot exist. To reject authority meant precisely this: eradicating at their root the myriad Japanese specters that had led Japan astray; Kimura Meijin was not negated by his decade-long undefeated authority, but rather had been fated to lose due to his insincerity toward shogi, his Meijin status derived from qualities unrelated to shogi itself, and his transformation into a fabricated authority. Just as Japan—which had relied on spirit and divine wind—met its ruin, so too did the Meijin meet defeat, pronouncing it his ordained fate.

It was utterly absurd. That was why he had a disposition to lose. If one devoted oneself to shogi and offered heart and soul to its techniques, they should naturally become a demon of the match; politicians should become demons of policy execution—each should fall along their respective paths. Things like stylistic presence had no place anywhere. In shogi, one became Meijin solely through shogi's techniques. As the Meijin said, it was the era. Indeed, it was the era when what must perish perished. Form perished so that substance alone might be correctly evaluated for being substance itself. For the sake of a new, true Japan being born.

Substance alone is everything.